After last year was so memorable-perhaps the best in decades-this Recess season seemed a little anticlimactic. In fact, it pretty much sucked, and we didn't pretend to hide it. For our readers' sake, we hope we sat through more of the intolerable stuff than anyone else. After all, it's our job.
Top ten lists tend to be boring. For your amusement, we've tried to condense the year into some unusual superlatives to help you better navigate the rental aisles. Better luck next year, Hollywood. Maybe then we won't have to give you so many damn F's and D's.
The (Haven't Got) It Girls: She's All That ingenue Rachael Leigh Cook featured prominently in Sylvester Stallone's would-be comeback vehicle Get Carter and MGM's aggressively promoted cyberflop AntiTrust. Tara Reid, aka the future Mrs. Carson Daly, was billed above the title in the hugely expensive time-travel bomb Just Visiting and Robert Altman's gyno-comedy Dr. T and the Women. And both of them foundered in Josie and the Pussycats, a franchise non-starter for Universal. We hear their next project is a quintuple-header: Trust Dr. T and Just Get Pussy.
Snub of the Year: Mark Ruffalo, in the small delight You Can Count On Me. One of the most humane performances of the year, lost amidst alcoholic painters and men in breastplates.
Worst Movie from Talented Filmmakers: O Brother, Where Art Thou?-or, as I murmured to myself about 80 minutes in, "O Christ on ice, what the f--- is this?" Some time later, I'm able to answer myself: a smug, sick-souled, witless riff on The Odyssey. I have seen cartoons that better convey the human spirit. And I'm talking anime porn cartoons.
Best Horror Film: Requiem For A Dream had no monsters, ghosts or smarmy teenagers. But Darren Aronofsky's drug opus was as garishly terrifying as anything out this year or any other.
Hope Those Matrix Sequels are Underway: In 1999, Keanu uttered four words ("What is the Matrix?" or "I know kung fu") and found
Most Disappointing Revelation: Who murdered Katie Holmes in The Gift, the sinister Southern Gothic thriller from Sam Raimi? Well, there's the one we suspect from the get-go: Greg Kinnear. And the one we're ready to bank on at the 90-minute mark: Greg Kinnear. At last, the one who actually did it: ...uh, Greg Kinnear.
The "Where Are They Now?" Award: Stephen Baldwin. No particular reason.
Dimmest Hero: Oh, God, what a piss-poor year for stalwart leads. First Ben Chaplin couldn't decipher XES, the rune that haunted his dreams in Lost Souls (hint: It's "sex" spelled backwards). Then Brendan Fraser was forced to channel simian instincts while cracking many a jack-off joke in Monkeybone. And Julianne Moore's Clarice Starling ceded not only the title of Hannibal but also its action to the good doctor, spending three-fourths of the movie in her office. Paging Clint Eastwood, stat.
Savviest Casting: Brad Pitt in Snatch. Anyone who saw The Devil's Own knows that an Irish brogue is too much to ask of the pitted pretty boy, so Guy Ritchie craftily cast the Fight Club-ber as an incomprehensible Mancunian. New phenomenon: parts tailored to an actor's weaknesses.
Least Savvy Casting: Brad Pitt in The Mexican. This impossibly weak performer hasn't headlined a bone fide hit since 1995's Seven; even when paired with Julia Roberts at the Oscar-anointed apex of her career, the legend of several falls ago held The Mexican's gross below $70 million.
Biggest Asshole: For his surly, humorless Oscar-night demeanor; for flipping the bird to a Princeton student who snapped a photo of the actor in her quad (polite!); for citing as Meg Ryan's raison d'être "round the clock sex";
Most Squandered Second (Third? Eighth?) Chance: After the big-budget fiascos of Battlefield Earth and Lucky Numbers, a certain portly Tarantinite better start praying to Zoltar the Troll God or whatever those zany Scientologists believe in. Travolta's number is up-back, back to the washed-out rental shelf from whence you came!
Nearest Miss: Unbreakable was the classic comic-book deconstruction that could have been if only the twist-happy M. Night Shyamalan had exercised the same restraint that so tightened and clarified the first nine-tenths of his film. The worst ending in recent memory.
Most Loved/Least Worthy Award: A tie between America's sweethearts Julia Roberts and Tom Hanks! Aww! They should band together to do a movie-say, a romantic comedy in which a crotchety foreign landlady and a talking dog impede a reunion between two star-crossed lovers! And the stars could be on the run, Bird on a Wire-style, from a cranky Mafia boss played by either Jonathan Lipnicki or even Prince Adorable himself, Marlon Brando! Save some time and just give them the Oscar at its premiere.
Least Loved/Most Worthy Award: We counted eight films featuring Michael Rapaport this year-too bad those titles, including Lucky Numbers and Ah-nuld's DNAction flick The 6th Day, were entirely forgettable. And even though this talented character actor stole his every scene, we'd take one good movie from him over all eight of these.
Most Unforgivable Cinematic Offense and a Crime Against Humanity for Which Someone, Preferably a Cute Orphan Named Skippy, Should be Garrotted: Pay It Forward. Kevin Spacey, Helen Hunt and Haley Joel Osment headline this heinous affront to audience taste and intelligence. In their most memorable work, all three have trod a deft line between sincerity and mush-but after this, can we ever take them that seriously again? Kevin, back in the shower to masturbate.
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